


worry stones

by braithwaites



Series: the hounds of hades [9]
Category: Red Dead Redemption
Genre: M/M, Returning Home, Tenderness, Trans Male Character, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-23
Updated: 2018-11-23
Packaged: 2019-08-28 07:06:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16718674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/braithwaites/pseuds/braithwaites
Summary: Victor shot him a suspicious look before walking the way he came. From behind, John could see him working that worry stone in his hand like he could turn it into gold like some kind of anxious King Midas.He still looked like there was a ramrod up his spine, which was what kept John's mind from offering him a word likeprecious.





	worry stones

 

There wasn't a single member of the Van der Linde gang that wasn't a survivor. Even those who were a little worse for wear like Swanson or those you thought were barely hanging onto what they had left, like Molly O'Shea. They were survivors, too.

They weren't dead.

The gang had put enough people in the ground to know that not being dead was a victory.

John Marston weathered a hell of a lot in his twenty-six years, and he knew what suffering looked like even if the person in pain sought to conceal it, like it was as simple as stowing a take inside of a straw mattress.

He watched from the back of his horse as Victor Highmore made his way across the camp, moving from the covered carriage the gang used as a doctor's office to the much sturdier structure that Dutch still managed to refer to as a tent with a hint of displeasure in his voice.

Victor wasn't a tall man, but the set of his brow and shoulders made him look more imposing than he gave himself credit for. He focused too much on the soft curve of his jaw and his full upper lip, just as he focused too much on his work from the look of things. There was a stoop in his back and a hitch in his gait that wasn't normally there.

The man was stiff, but he didn't always look like he was made of magicked stone.

John stepped down off of his horse with a jangle of buckles and spurs, taking a moment to hitch him to the post without taking his eyes off of Victor as he passed.

_His_ man was stiff.

He couldn't allow that.

Diverting Victor wasn't an easy task. When he set his mind to something, there was no dissuading him. That was something John learned early on, long before something started between them, and it was a lesson Vic hadn't let him forget. Not by a long-fucking-shot.

John tucked his thumbs through the belt loops of his jeans and headed right on over to him, his walk a little brisker than usual in order to catch up with Victor before he reached Dutch's tent.

“Hey, Doc!” he called out, voice rasping as it rose. He hadn't said a word in hours, having been traveling alone since the previous day, and his throat didn't much care for that. Still, it got Victor's attention. Whether it was because he knew who that voice belonged to or because he stopped whenever someone called out to him, John wasn't sure. He wasn't about to ask, either. “Sorry 'bout interrupting you, but...”

Victor adjusted the glasses that sat on his nose, pressing them a little farther up as he tilted his chin. The sun forced him to squint, and a rare spark of good sense forced John not to grin at him.

“What is it?”

John rubbed a hand through his hair, wishing he'd pulled it back or washed it or _something_ before heading back to camp.

“Can it wait?” he asked, face scrunching as much as it could with the burn that covered the bridge of his nose and tops of his cheeks. The flesh was stiff, but it moved enough. Enough to smile, too. He just hoped Victor's reasons for heading towards Dutch's tent could be delayed for a while. “So we can talk somewhere private like.”

Victor peered up at him as well as he could with the sun shining in his eyes. “Private like,” he repeated.

John stepped between the doctor and the sun. Shadow fell over Victor's face, and the pupils in his green eyes widened just a bit. The wrinkles in his forehead eased, too.

All in all, it was a good move. John let himself feel a little proud of thinking of it.

“Of course,” Victor said slowly. Hesitation hedged his words on either side, and he tucked one of his soft, doctor's hands into a pocket on the front of his vest. John knew he only did that when he was nervous or over-worked; there was a smooth worry stone sitting in there, much smaller than it had been upon purchase. “I'm assuming you injured yourself.”

Victor's eyes pitched downward before making their way back up, from the toes of John's boots to the top of his greasy head. The look wasn't a judgmental one, but that didn't keep him from shifting back a step and staring right back, arms folded over his chest.

“I'm not injured, alright?” He threw a thumb over towards the carriage. It didn't have wheels anymore to keep the doctor's hands steady and had gone through a few changes just to keep everything inside from getting wet. The canvas was dyed a watered down shade of green, with a few blankets thrown over the top to keep things dark during the daytime and warm overnight. Sometimes, those blankets were there only to muffle the screaming. “Just gotta talk to you, is all.”

“Alright.”

Victor shot him a suspicious look before walking the way he came. From behind, John could see him working that worry stone in his hand like he could turn it into gold like some kind of anxious King Midas.

He still looked like there was a ramrod up his spine, which was what kept John's mind from offering him a word like _precious_.

The moment they stepped into the tent, Victor turned around and tied all five sets of laces that kept the canvas in place and kept the office private. There wasn't much room to walk around inside, but John didn't mind that. Being close to Victor was usually one of his favorite things.

“What's got you so worked up, John Marston?”

Victor turned around and kept his back to the knots he'd only just tied, one hand held behind his back. From the twitchy movement of his arm, John could tell that he was still working over that stone.

If he kept rubbing it like that, would it eventually be rubbed down into nothing? Was that possible?

John gave his head a slow shake, then cleared his throat. “I was planning on askin' you the same thing. You're looking – and acting – pretty suspect, Victor. You know that, right?”

A sigh skidded out of the man's mouth. The tension in his shoulders ebbed, and he allowed himself a moment with his eyes closed, surrounded by the almost-dark of his carriage office. There was a lamp in the corner, but it hadn't been lit lately. The air didn't carry any smell.

“I've been... perhaps... working myself a little too hard,” Victor offered, which was more than John had ever managed to get out of him.

After a day away from camp, had things changed between them? Did he miss some step, one that was taken without him even being there? Maybe there was some kind of truth to absence making the heart grow fonder. Even for an afternoon, a night, or even a day.

“It isn't often that I have to deal with snake bites,” Victor continued without being prompted, moving over to the cot that hugged the length of one side of the carriage. He sat down, though his back was still pulled back and pin-straight. “The aftermath, yes, but... God.”

“Who got bit?”

Victor tucked the stone into his vest pocket again. Then, he reached out to John, taking one of his callused, sun-burned hands and bringing him down to the cot beside him.

“Bill,” he murmured. “He was out hunting. He claims that he was skinning a buck at the time and cut off the thing's head the moment it sunk its fangs into his calf. Everyone says it's bullshit, but I believe him. There was barely any damage done; it didn't have enough time to pump him full of venom. It's just been... stressful.”

“You alright?”

Victor nodded, murmuring a quiet, “He's fine,” that made John crack into an even broader smile.

“That's not _exactly_ what I asked.”

Blinking, Victor turned his head in John's direction. He'd missed – or maybe just misunderstood – the question. Then, a light of understanding dawned on his face. “Oh! Jesus, John...” He ducked his head and laughed. The sound of it couldn't have been more perfect.

His soft fingertips brushed over the back of John's hand, rubbing along the veins that stood out from his thick, darkly tanned skin.

“I'm alright,” he murmured. “I'm alright.”

“You know... I don't much believe a man who has to repeat himself.”

Victor leaned heavily into him, their shoulders pressed together, and he stared up in the dark. When he didn't have to squint, his skin was smooth as anything save for the line that sat between his brows, etched there permanently as if someone had carved away a part of him.

“The days are longer when you're not at camp.” Victor didn't sound as cautious anymore. In fact, he spoke in an easy way that John wasn't entirely sure he deserved. Not yet, at least. The doctor had already put enough trust in him, enough faith. He didn't know if he could balance all of it _and_ keep his heart safe. “Gives me more hours to work.”

John lifted his free hand to cup the nape of Victor's neck, drawing him closer. “Stop pushin' yourself so hard,” he told him before he pressed a lingering kiss on the wrinkled skin between Victor's eyebrows.

Quiet passed between them like warmth rolling off of a fire.

He'd never been talented with tenderness, but he was learning. Just like Victor had never been much good at trusting people, either.

It figured that Victor would prove a faster learner.


End file.
